


but that's okay, my will is good

by Pluppelina



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Don't Try This At Home, Frottage, M/M, Power Play, Power Struggle, Sebastian is casually racist, fucked up relationship dymanics, main character gets a gun in the face
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 20:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pluppelina/pseuds/Pluppelina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If there is one thing Sebastian knows about his boss, it is that he's an infuriating little cock tease that deserves what he's got coming. Jim agrees whole-heartedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	but that's okay, my will is good

They’re drunk and Jim is laughing, throwing his head back and laughing, loud and clear, and there’s so little meat on him that Sebastian can see all the little rings of his trachea clear as anything through his skin. He wants nothing quite so badly as to lean in and crush them, reshape them, bruise Jim up like a rape victim (duck taped, panties on inside out, Sebastian knows these things, and Jim would look so beautiful left abused in a ditch just outside of Kabul like some brown-skinned whore screaming for mercy in Pashto).

Then the moment has passed and Jim’s pinned him to the spot with poisonous eyes and a dirty grin that’s just begging for a fist through the teeth and Sebastian has never hated to want anyone quite as much as he despises Jim Moriarty in just that second. “Another round?” he says, casually, and Sebastian nods, manages a “Yes, boss,” from low in his throat, making it sound so much more like _you better sleep with one eye open_ as he goes to refill their drinks.

They drink more, sit together as the tension grows thicker by the minute. Jim is boasting the way he always does once he’s gotten a few too many, not about his kills or anything that Sebastian can understand, no, about _mathematics_ of all things, of how he’s able to calculate the turning of the stars and the earth and the sun and see everything unfold centuries into the future like some sort of god.

There’s nothing quite like delusions of grandeur, like some idea that he's _better_ than others, to make Sebastian crack his knuckles, to want to take the fucking sod down to earth and then drive him face down into the dirt, fuck him and piss on him and maybe kick him in the ribs a couple of times for good measure. Breaking bones is fun, but breaking minds is exhilarating.

It’s not long until the inevitable happens. “I need to piss,” Jim says, rising, and Sebastian rises with him. “I’ll watch your back.” Normally he’s to watch Jim’s drunk if Jim needs to leave but there’s no one here who’d want to poison Jim and Sebastian doesn’t like to roofie his victims; it takes all the sport out of beating them down.

They go into the men’s, which is empty aside from a couple guys who are from the sounds of it snorting cocaine in one of the far stalls, and Jim has barely had time to unzip in front of the urinal before Sebastian had grabbed him and pulled him into one of the stalls on the other side of the room. Jim’s laughing and his trousers are too well-tailored to fall from his slim hips and that makes Sebastian hate him even more but then he’s locked the door behind them and everything goes to hell from there as the madness in Jim’s eyes bleeds through into his actions.

“Did you really think I was gonna let you do that to me, tiger?” he asks and there’s a gun pressing into the soft underside of Sebastian’s jaw, making it hard for him to swallow and impossible to speak. If this had been anyone else, literally anyone else, Sebastian would’ve wrestled the gun from their hands and used it against them, but this is Jim Moriarty, and Sebastian knows very well that Jim would rather pull the trigger one time too many than one time too few, and that any little twitch might cost him his head.

“Now be a dear and turn around, hm?” Jim says, as though they’re having dinner and Jim’s just asked him to pass the salt, only he’s done anything but that and if this doesn’t end with a bullet through his head or a cock in his arse, he doesn’t know how it will. Too bad Jim is too smart to ask for a blow job, he thinks as he very slowly rotates, hands half-raised in a nonthreatening stance. He could’ve bitten Jim’s dick off and died happily.

When he’s facing the door, pressing his forehead and the palms of his hands against the door, he realises that he isn’t going to die, because if Jim wanted to kill him he’d already be dead and besides he’s lived through worse than this before, has the scars to prove it. All he can think is that he’s fucking stupid for not anticipating this, for not seeing it coming sooner. Maybe he’s just too drunk, or maybe Jim is just too clever.

The gun’s still pressed against his jaw when Jim opens his trousers, pulls it all down and out of the way, and Jim’s hard against him but not inside him, “because I don’t know where you’ve been, tiger”, rubbing up against him, rubbing in his arse crack, and it’s humiliating enough, more than humiliating considering that Sebastian’s original idea had been to humiliate _Jim_ , but it’s too late for that now, isn’t it, and then it’s much too late because Jim is coming, coming all over him, leaving a stain on his skin and his t-shirt and it’s sticky and wet and if this is how it feels, then Sebastian can almost - _almost_ \- feel sorry for the people he’s done it to before.

Well. At least he had had the courtesy of giving the ladies the real deal, of making them feel thoroughly wanted. This, what Jim had done? It was just humiliating. If Jim had driven it home, at least Sebastian would’ve really properly known that Jim _wanted_ to. Anything else was just rude.

Maybe if Jim hadn’t been so rude, Sebastian wouldn’t be shaking so badly right now.

Then the gun is gone, and that’s better, really, to not have a gun pointed at his head, and he should just turn around and give Jim a worse treatment than he received, but before he can quite get himself to move he can hear Jim’s urine hitting the water in the toilet bowl. Jim’s taking a piss. After what just happened, Jim still needed to take a fucking piss.

“Pull yourself together, tiger,” he says, still going, as airily as if they’re just eating breakfast and Sebastian had dropped his toast on the floor. “It’s just a little mess. It’ll wash off, promise. It’s not even half as bad as what you wanted to do to me. You should be grateful I did this for you, really. It’ll keep us both out of trouble in the future.”

The worst part is that Jim is right. The worst part is that Sebastian can tell that this has cemented an idea in his mind that has been taking form for some time now, that you do not fuck with Jim, that fucking with Jim is a bad, bad idea, and of course that’s what makes it all the more attractive, but he was just inches from being shot through the brain and millimeters from being raped and those are lines Sebastian would rather not cross. If it had gone any further, any of it, if Jim had been a bit hornier, a bit more reckless, or if Sebastian had under-estimated Jim and made a wrong move...

He’d have bigger troubles than a case of the shivers.

Jim flushes, turns back to Sebastian, Sebastian who’s still just leaning against the door with his hands above his head and his pants around his knees, and Jim says, “Say thank you, love. I’m letting you off easy; the least you can do is show some gratitude.”

That’s an order, and Sebastian has always been good with orders. “Thank you, Sir,” he says, reaching down to pull his trousers back up. “Thank you.”

Jim pulls a hand through Sebastian’s hair on his way out, and if Sebastian didn’t know any better he’d say it was done with affection.


End file.
